


Out of the Frying Pan

by Anniel



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Honeypot, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, dubcon, illya centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-07-16 02:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16076726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anniel/pseuds/Anniel
Summary: Soon after their first mission, Illya and Napoleon have to pose as a couple.It gets worse from there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the lame-ass description but this will probably be a lame-ass story.  
> I'm neither American, nor old enough to remember communism so pardon my french when I mess up. (Also I feel like the socialist regime is very much downplayed in most of tmfu fanfiction, what with Illya being wiped out by state propaganda, so i'm just jumping on the bandwagon here)
> 
> Yes this is short, yes there will be more to come soon.

After their first mission in Rome, they each get a couple of days off to settle things down with their respective agencies.

Solo has no ties to CIA or anyone in it and Gaby has no one to cater to as well. They decide to spend the days in New York, indulging in good food and fine art. They ask Illya to join them when he's done in Russia but he knows it's just out of politeness and he doesn't want to impose.

Illya goes to Moscow and his supervisors make it clear that he is no longer a part of the organization. Oleg looks solemn when they say their goodbyes and Illya can't help but wonder what did he trade with Waverly for Illya. It is hard to imagine a piece of information valuable enough to be worth KGB's best agent, but then again – imagination was never Illya's strong suit.

He visits his mother and is pleased to see her well-fed and healthy.

She scolds him for not calling in advance, despite gifting her a phone a few years ago. He feels his ears going red when she scolds him like she did when he was a little boy.

"You never call Illyusha! What good is this thing to me when you never call? Never visit your mother?"

He brought with him spices and an antique fruit bowl with birds on it he bought in Rome as an afterthought. His mother loved it, she had a penchant for collecting pretty things, a habit that made their life after his father was taken away even more difficult. She refused to give up the standard she has grown used to, holding on to it even as it was ripped from her hands, dragging her under with it.

She reminded him of Solo in that aspect – unwilling or perhaps unable to give up the glory and splendor of life to the point of downfall. Whether it came in the form of imprisonment or something worse.

His mother makes him tea and tells him all about the women in her neighborhood. Illya can't help but smile when the gossiping about the old hags in her building turns to praise of the beauty and kindness of every young Ivana or Polina or Mila on this side of Moskva.

Tears glisten in her eyes as she sees him out but she doesn't cry. Nor does she ask when she'll see him again.

He gets on a plane to New York and tries not to think about how easy it always feels to leave behind the country he grew up in. The only things tying him to Russia were his job and his mother. Now, it was just his mother.

After landing, instead of visiting Gaby or Solo he finds himself a little dusty motel where he spends the time until the check in with Waverly is due.

He walks the steps to an unassuming old building in an unassuming old neighborhood. He walks into a small florist shop he was told was a cover for the NY UNCLE headquarters.

The woman in the store is a petite elderly blond, undoubtedly armed under her green florist apron. She gives him a lopsided smile and points him in the back.

He opens a pair of unassuming but heavy doors and faces Waverly sitting behind a snow white desk.

"Sir," He nods at Gaby and Solo, who are already there. Solo smiles at him brightly, crows feet forming around the blue of his eyes, the happiness on his face convincing. Gaby smiles and waves her gloved hand at him.

"Agent Kuryakin, please take a seat."

Illya sits on the only empty chair and tries not to stick out his legs awkwardly. It is too short.

"I have a new assignment for the three of you," He hands Illya a thin folder identical to those in front of new coworkers.

Illya flips the folder open and skims down the first page, the man's face already committed to memory. Antonio Rossi, born in Italy, gained American citizenship very young through his father, served in the military for a while, released because of injuries sustained, speaks three languages, ties to Italian fascist, deals weapons and drugs, known to forge identities and smuggle people into America, no living relatives except his father.

"We got an information that Rossi got his hands on a new kind of drug developed by a rogue CIA agent. A truth serum of sorts. Now, we are not sure if it works but we cannot leave it in the hands of someone like Rossi. We already searched his condo and all his other properties so it's probable he keeps it on his person and you need to get close. Agent Solo will pose as a convict looking for a new identity for himself and his niece, Miss Teller, and a way to get to Europe without being caught."

Waverly pauses, his eyes locking with Solo's.

"Am I a backup then, sir?" Illya asks, careful not to sound undignified. He's been backup before, he just didn't expect he'd be sitting in a nearby café while Solo and Teller do all the work.

"Quite the opposite, Peril," Solo says, "Turn to page three."

Illya stops to glare at him first but does as he is told.

Oh.

"You see, Agent Kuryakin, Rossi's father sent his son out of the country to avoid a potential scandal with his investors." Waverly continues, sounding as monotone as ever. "You and Solo will be playing a couple to gain Rossi's trust and get close to him."

Illya feels his insides sink. So this is why the UNCLE wanted him. He registers the tremble in his left arm. They know. He doesn't look up but keeps his eyes on the page, not reading a single word.

"Will that be a problem, Agent Kuryakin?"

"No sir," He grits out. He is a professional, he can do this.

The briefing goes on for another 20 minutes but Illya barely registers a word of it. He only comes to his senses when Gaby and Solo stand up to leave.

All three of them walk to the end of the street, Illya's silence not affecting his coworkers' sunny mood in the slightest. Gaby then goes off to buy some clothes for the mission and Napoleon gives Illya the address of the condo they will be staying in and clasps his shoulder in a 'see you later' gesture. Illya does not flinch.

He is genuinely surprised when he reaches the motel he was staying in, he does not remember a single step he took towards it. He berates himself for losing his attention. If anyone wanted to kill him he probably wouldn't even register them before it was too late.

He closes the doors behind him, both of his hands trembling now. He fights the urge to wreck the cheap motel furniture but manages to restrain himself to only flipping the table, not even breaking it. This, all thing considered, is as composed as he gets.

He stands in the middle of a relatively unharmed room and forces his breathing to slow down. They do not know. They have no way of knowing. The only person who knew is dead. KGB, an organization he has worked for for years doesn't know, how could UNCLE, an organization that was literally a week old, know? Or maybe KGB did know, maybe that's why they sent him away. Sold him out to UNCLE before he could embarrass them.

His resolve to not break havoc on the distastefully furnished but innocent apartment falls in vain as he recalls the smug smile on Solo's face and shatters the two chairs and table into small pieces of sad-looking wood.

He meets Napoleon at the arranged address. It's a pre-war building in a seedy neighborhood, suitable for someone trying to keep a low profile.

"There you are," Napoleon greets him, "Waverly just sent heads up that the mission is being rescheduled for tonight."

Napoleon is wearing nothing but a bathrobe pulled loosely around his waist, exposing most of his chest as he digs around in the closet.

"Gaby's in the apartment next doors and she bought some clothes for you to wear." He points to a neat pile on the king-sized bed.

Illya walks over to it and suspiciously picks up the garment on top.

"This will not fit," he says, incredulous, and stretches what seems to be a sleeve-less undershirt between his hands.

"Trust me, it will," Napoleon says without looking at him.

Illya huffs out a breath of air.

"Where is the shirt?" There is nothing besides the undershirt and a pair of black pants that also don't look like they will fit him.

"That is the shirt" Napoleon finally turns to him and points to the ridiculously small piece of fabric. "The cover story is that I am a thief who you fell madly in love with while you were working the construction and I saved you from the life of hard labor. You gotta look the part of a grateful, if a bit simple boyfriend."

"I will not wear that," Illya grits out.

Napoleon stops whatever the fuck he was doing with an ugly grey suit and looks him in the eye.

"I know you don't like this Peril, but despite his upbringing, Rossi is not a man of refined tastes. From what we know he treats his romantic acquaintances as lesser and isn't shy about it in his social circles at all," He falls silent, a hint of disgust on his face, "To get close to him I need to seem the same. You understand."

And Illya does. Understand, that is. This won't be the worst thing he's done on a mission by a stretch. So he nods and takes off his own pullover. Napoleon's eyes graze his body before turning away to choose slacks even uglier than the suit jacket.

He pulls the undershirt, or apparently top shirt, over his head. It does not fit at all. It is too tight. Illay says nothing and puts on the pants that are thankfully a bit more easy to breathe in.

"There you go," Napoleon smiles at him and then as if on an afterthought throws a belt at him.

Illya catches it instinctively. It is smooth black leather with a silver clasp, it looks minimalist but expensive and entirely unnecessary, considering how tight these pants are. Illya puts it on nonetheless.

Napoleon looks him over with a critical eye.

"Perfect,"

Illya walks over to the built in mirror of the wardrobe and feels a distinct need to strangle Solo.

"I look like a rent boy," he grits out, each word like a spit in his own face. He turns to Napoleon fully expecting him to sneer at him and tell that he's no better than a one. Instead, he is met with a brief look of empathy that quickly turns into a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"The things we do for peace, Peril."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya and Napoleon meet their mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I truly believed I would have this chapter out within a week of posting the first one. What can I say, school owns my left ass cheek, work owns my right ass cheek and overall I'm fucked, my dudes.  
> I want to thank you all for the kind reception, I truly was not expecting that and I love you all.

They are set to meet with Rossi in a small bar in the East Village and by the time they get there Illya has resigned himself to his fate and his only resolve is to get the mission over with as quickly as possible.

Instead of entering the pub Illya knows from pictures, Solo makes his way into a narrow alley and hushes Illya when he opens his mouth to protest. 

Napoleon throws a glance into the main street and, seeing no one there, knocks on the 'employees only' door.

A young man opens, a boy really, and Napoleon gives him a smile so wide and bright it makes him blush and avert his eye to Illya, who gives him his best shy smile, while squirming a bit, playing into the character.

"We are here to see Mister Rossi," Napoleon says.

The boy skims over Illya's get-up briefly and nods, turning his attention to Napoleon again.

"Sure, come in, Mister-?"

"Byrne," Napoleon answers.

"Mister Byrne," he nods and steps away to let them in without asking Illya for a name.

Illya shudders, the boy must assume he's some nameless whore. He makes his hands into fists to conceal the tremor

The bar is dimly lit with a dark wood and leather theme, that only accentuates the feelings of dread forming inside of Illya.

The boy leads them alongside tables with seated men talking and drinking.

Drinking and touching.

Many throw Illya appreciative glances. Some are discreet, some slide their eyes over his body in the tight undershirt.

By the time they reach the door at the end of the room he's on the verge of bashing someone's face in.

The boy gestures for them to wait and swiftly goes inside.

So they wait. Illya stands there, stiff and unmoving, for what feels like hours. He can sense the stares of the men behind him crawl up his body. 

When he can no longer control the tremor in his hands, even as they are drawn into fists, nails biting into his palms, the door opens again and this time the boy holds it open for them, smiling politely.

Now, Illya doesn't flinch when Solo places his hand on his lower back, he's a professional, thank you very much, but his heart rate does spike up enough that when they step into the room the timid expression on his face is only half acting.

The man seated at the only table is clearly Rossi, albeit with more facial hair and a face more red than on the pictures in Waverly's files.

Two men pat them down swiftly. Illya notes that they are both carrying badly concealed pocket pistols.

"Mister Rossi, I presume," says Napoleon, while extending his hand to the man, "My name is Stephen Byrne and this is my friend Ivan."

Rossi shakes his hand while gluing his eyes to Illya.

"You may sit down," Rossi says, somehow ignoring Solo while still holding his hand.

Napoleon throws one hand over Illya's shoulders when they sit down. This seems to amuse Rossi, who smiles and gestures the boy to pour them a drink. He does not ask them what they wish to drink and Illya guesses it's a part of the power play he's got going on, what with not even standing up to greet them.

Their drinks are poured and to Illya's distaste, it's whiskey.

Napoleon starts to rub small circles into his shoulder. Rossi says nothing.

"I must say your reputation precedes you," Napoleon says, his voice as sweet and sly as ever, "In certain circles, at least."

Yes, Illya thinks, rubbing honey around his mouth but not too much.

"And what circles would that be, Mister Byrne?" Rossi sounds bored, twirling around the whiskey in his glass before taking a sip.

"Please call me Stephen. We are both men of trade, are we not?" Napoleon gives him his best mischievous grin, "And gossip travels fast in our line of work."

"Funny that I have not heard of you before."

Illya suppresses a wince but Napoleon isn't fazed at all. He smiles, wide and bright and turns his head to Illya.

"To be honest, it has been a bit of a honeymoon period for us lately",

Illya feels the heat rushing into his face as there are only centimeters dividing them.

"I've been trying to keep a low profile, as Ivan here is not a citizen and it took a lot out of me to smuggle him here."

From this distance, Illya can see the speck of brown in Napoleon's blue eyes. He has always found it intriguing, this tiny imperfection in what seemed to be the perfect human specimen.

"Of course, I understand," Rossi smiles, though it doesn't reach his eyes, "And where are you from?"

"Serbia, sir," Illya answers, averting his eyes to the glass in his hand and playing up his accent a little bit.

"You have gotten yourself quite the exotic beauty, Stephen," Rossi chuckles, though it does sound more like a snort.

Illya clenches his fist under the table but gives him a small shy smile, looking at him through his eyelashes. Gaby told him his eyelashes were pretty.

Napoleon laughs, "Yes, I consider myself a very lucky man," 

Rossi barely spares Napoleon a slightly annoyed look before aiming his attention back at Illya

"It makes me wonder what exactly it is about you that is worth smuggling over the iron curtain."

Illya startles at the look of hunger on Rossi's face.

Oh, no.

No.

This is not how it was supposed to go.

Napoleon's hand moves up to cradle his neck in a protective gesture. Or a possessive one, depending on your point of view.

"Indeed, I've found that some things are worth fighting for."

"Must be love," Rossi's voice is mocking in that ugly hidden way Illya hates.

"Must be," Napoleon's hand on his neck is slightly sweaty, he must realize that the meeting is not going in the right direction.

Napoleon tries to steer the conversation towards the subject of fake papers, feeding Rossi the story about fleeing law, and Rossi, though obviously unwilling, peels his eyes away from Illya.

"I'm afraid forged identities are not an area I dabble in anymore,"

"I have heard that too," Napoleon drawls out, "But I also heard you are one of the best and I won't have nothing but the best when it comes to this. You smuggle people in here with no trouble, surely it won't be that much of a problem the other way around."

"And would that be only you and your... friend?"

"My niece too," Napoleon's voice takes up a slight pleading value, "I would make do somehow with just Ivan and me but I promised her late mother that I will take care of her."

"Yes, of course. There is nothing quite as important as family in this world," Rossi scorns.

Illya swears internally. Rossi's father was so ashamed of him he sent him to another continent.

"Do you have family in Russia still?" Rossi turns to him suddenly.

He decides not to correct Rossi on the fact that Serbia is a nice few countries away from Russia. "No, sir-" 

"Please call me Antonio,"

"Antonio," he makes a face as if he struggles with the name, making the 'nio' overly soft, "No, have no family there. They died,"

"What a shame," There is no trace of a feeling on Rossi's face, but his hawk-like eyes never leave Illya's face as he takes a sip of his whiskey.

Illya was so pent up the entire time they'd been there he forgot about his own drink altogether. He hurries to gulp it down, immediately regretting it as it burns his throat because goddamn Americans don't manufacture their alcohol to be just thrown back like normal people but prefer to fucking sip on it for hours.

Napoleon slaps his back as he chokes a bit, which is nice and Illya appreciates it but he is also laughing in his face openly, which is not so nice and Illya is going to have words with him later.

Not that it really matters when even through the tears in his eyes he can see that this is Napoleon's true laugh, silent with eyes crinkled and face a bit red.

In the meantime Rossi gestures to the boy, who is apparently a doorman, a waiter, and probably also a bed warmer, to bring him water.

Illya drinks it gratefully.

"You must excuse Ivan here," Napoleon says, his eyes shining with laughter and merit in his voice, "He is not used to this kind of liquor."

He places a chaste little peck on Illya's temple and looks at him with such fondness it makes something in him ache.

Rossi, too, looks amused.

"Oh sorry, it has been neglectful of me to serve you this." He places his hand on the one Illya has on the table, "I'm sure we have some vodka in storage if you are interested."

"No, thank you. Is no need." Illya gives him a shy smile, dumbing down his speech and internally cursing Waverly for giving him this goddamn role to play. His entire ordeal here is, as Gaby put it, to 'stand there and look pretty'. 

Rossi drags his fingers briefly over Illya's hand as he retracts his own.

No.

Not how it should go

"Of course, now tell me how did you two meet," Rossi asks.

Illya is ready to put out an array of grammatically incorrect sentences to further play into his role of an uneducated soviet worker when Napoleon helpfully comes to rescue.

"I was in Kosovo, visiting an old friend and possibly emptying some commie pockets," Napoleon smiles mischievously, "When I stumbled upon him, working the construction," He pulls Illya even closer with his left arm, "He was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I just knew I had to have him." His hand cups Illya's cheek. 

Illya averts his eyes, all shy and demure even as he is fighting bile down his throat. 

"What a beautiful story." Rossi's voice is all mocking again, "How do you like it here, Ivan?"

"Is very different. I very like it. Am grateful to Steve for taking me here," He winces internally at his words and further curses Waverly.

"I'm sure." He snorts, "I'm afraid I can't help you with your papers."

Well, fuck. 

"If money's the problem, I assure you that-" Napoleon starts.

"I have no need for money"

"Please, sir – Antonio," Illya screws up his face and smiles apologetically at the slip-up, " We need your help. Am begging of you." He sounds pathetic even to his own ears, hopefully enough so that Rossi will take pity on them.

"Well, I am sure we can arrange some different type of a payment with Stephen here."

Oh, perhaps the mission will not be a complete failure after all

Napoleon looks wary for just a fraction of a second, before fixing a business smile on his face.

"Perhaps you can wait outside," Rossi says to Illya.

Illya frowns, he can't leave his partner alone with this man and the guards. Just as he opens his mouth to protest Napoleon says:

"Yes, why don't you wait outside for me darling."

Illya feels like he's missing something important, but he stands up and lets himself be briefly kissed by Napoleon on the way out. It's short and dry, not a speck of passion in it but is probably enough to keep up the appearance.

"It has been a pleasure meeting you," Rossi's says, something ugly in his eyes still.

The multipurpose boy opens the door for him and throws him a look full of anger? Contempt? Illya does not dwell on him, nor does he dwell on the eyes of men that ogle him once again, and instead strains his ears for any sort of a sound that might indicate a fight. His skin crawls with the thought that he has left Solo alone in a room with a dangerous criminal and two armed guards, while he himself is weaponless.

He watches the time on the big wall clock and promises himself that unless he hears anything suspicious he won't intrude.

With the noise of the bar's occupants he can't even make out their voices but he hopes he would hear any sounds of a struggle.

He leaves Napoleon to it for exactly 14 minutes, even as his hands twitch with trepidation.

At the 14 minute mark, Napoleon emerges from the room shaking hands with Rossi

"I believe we have a deal," Rossi says, his smile self-satisfied as his eyes dart to Illya

"That we do," Napoleon's polite smile is strangely stiff.

They exchange goodbyes, Rossi holding Illya's hand as he shakes it for a little longer than necessary and Napoleon's hands slide around his waist.

When they are outside of the bar Illya finally lets himself breath, glad that Napoleon didn't feel the need to touch him outside to keep up their cover. The last thing he needs right now is to be arrested for gross indecency.

They walk in silence, Napoleon's usual chatty disposition silenced. Illya doesn't mind, he doesn't feel like talking either. The meeting has left him feeling dirty and they can't discuss the mission in public anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, John is English for Ivan and I do not know what to do with that information.  
> Also, I make A LOT of typos so I'm just gonna share some of my pearls:  
> Napoelion\'s (Napoleon's)  
> iden^titties (identities)  
> acception (exception)
> 
> Yeah, editing my writing's always a blast.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya has an idea. Is it a good one? Probably no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow whenever I post I tell myself the next chapter will be up soon ( especially given how short they are like wow what is taking me so long) and it is never so.  
> I hope I'll get the next one up before holidays end here though.

Illya hasn't even properly let himself into the apartment yet when Napoleon downs a glass of whiskey, not unsimiliar to how Illya tried and failed to drink what Rossi poured him. He doesn't dwell on Napoleon as he scans all the rooms thoroughly for bugs. When he finds none he returns to his partner who is nursing another glass, this time actually sipping it.

"Did Rossi agree to another meeting?" he asks.

Napoleon takes a huge gulp of his drink, "In a way," he shudders, "Not that it matters. I am calling Waverly to tell him the mission was unsuccessful."

Solo moves to get the communicator from his suitcase but Illya stops him in his tracks, standing in his way, angry and imposing.

"What do you mean the mission was unsuccessful? It's not over yet."

"And that's where you are wrong, Peril." Solo tries to give him his signature grin but it comes out as a grimace.

Illya feels a slight tremor in his hands, he is fed up with the American getting on his nerves, "What. Do. You. Mean."

"I mean that the terms of our deal with Rossi are unacceptable."

Illya huffs out unbelievingly, "You do know we are not actually going to pay him for anything, Cowboy. We just need to gain his trust so he puts his guard down."

"Oh, I assure you, that man would be putting his guard down," Solo's voice is mocking and bitter. It something dark swells up in Illya.

Suddenly he is holding Solo by the lapels of his too-expensive suit and slamming him into the nearest wall. Not hard enough to do any damage but hard enough to hurt.

"Are you sabotaging this on purpose?" he accentuates the question with a hard shove, "Tell me what happened when a wasn't there."

"What happened, my dear Russian, is that he wants to fuck you"

Illya lets go of Napoleon and jumps back as if he was burned.

No.

"That's what I thought," he brushes the imaginary dust off his shoulders, "Now if you're done I have to inform Waverly."

"No"

"No what, Peril?" Solo asks irritated.

"I'll do it if it is the only way," the words are out of his mouth before he has the chance to think about it.

Solo outright laughs, but it is not the honest joy Illya revels in seeing.

"I appreciate your dedication to the job but this is not within the realm of your skills,"

"I've slept with marks before," why is he arguing about this? He doesn't want to do it. He is grateful that Solo is taking on the task of disappointing Waverly with the news.

"Have you ever bedded a man before?" Napoleon's eyes are piercing him, as though he can see every immoral and sodomous thought Illya's ever had. All the dreams he's had about anonymous men. All the dreams he's had about _him_.

"No"

"Than you're as good as a virgin. I am calling off the mission."

"There has to be a way"

Illya doesn't know why he keeps pressing the issue. Maybe it's because he is relieved to know that UNCLE, did, in fact, took him in because of his skills and that they had no idea about his proclivities. Maybe he doesn't want to be responsible for their first mission failing.

"There isn't, Peril. I tried to appeal to him, as a potential friend, as a lover, but he simply did not like me," he smiles, albeit a bit sour, "A rare disposition he shares with you."

"You tried to- as a lover?" Illya is so flabbergasted he doesn't even register the rest of Solo's sentence "Have _you_ bedded men before?" he staggers, "In the line of duty?" That has to be it. The only explanation. He would not put it past CIA to force Napoleon to do something so vile-

"Both in the line of duty and out of it,"

Not possible.

"But you-." he suddenly gets angry again, "Stop making jokes, you have a different woman for every day of the week."

"Yes, and sometimes I have a man too," when Illya doesn't say anything for a while, he continues, his tone sharp and cold, "If you have a problem with that I suggest you ask for a transfer, seeing as it might come up in a mission. I wouldn't want your Soviet sensitivities to feel threatened by my debauchery"

Illya feels as if his thoughts are racing a thousand miles a second.

Napoleon, a homosexual. Utilized by CIA and most likely by UNCLE in the future. He tried to pull Rossi's attention to himself. It's only Illya's fault that he wasn't able to determine that he was playing his role of a submissive simpleton too well and has caught the wrong kind of attention.

Speaking objectively, bedding the mark would be the ideal solution to the situation.

He has done worse things in the name of peace.

"You can fuck me." he blurts out

"Excuse you?" Solo's blue eyes are impossibly wide.

"You can show me what to do and then I can seduce Rossi," Illya can feel his whole face going red.

Solo says nothing, just stares at him. So he continues:

"This mission is too important to pass up. If he were to truly sell the truth serum it could result in a catastrophe. That is not a chance I am willing to take especially if it could be avoided by sucking a cock."

"He's not going to just want his cock sucked, Illya," Solo's voice takes up an almost pleading character to it.

Illya swallows hard, "Than fuck me-"

Napoleon starts to laugh disbelieving, "You seem to have finally lost your mind, Peril. I'm calling Waverly."

"No, Napoleon. This is the perfect solution to the situation. I and Rossi fuck. He falls asleep. I steal the serum and sneak out. No one will get hurt."

"Except for you," Napoleon says, undignified as if he's stating the obvious.

Illya starts to open his mouth to rebuke, irritated-

"No, Illya. Besides, do you want me to believe that you'll let him fuck you without hurting him? His father is a man of considerable connections, I can't have you mutilating his son."

"You think I can't control myself?" Even as he says it Illya's hands are trembling, eager to wrap themselves around Solo's neck, a temptation he is very close to giving into.

"Not in this situation you can't! Besides, I doubt deflowering you would do much good for the team's morale," Solo ends with a small grin, obviously attempting a joke. The fact that he refuses to take Illya seriously is making him even more furious.

"You are American," he spats the word out like the insult it is, "What do you know about morale?"

"I know that I won't fuck my colleague," Solo's voice is at last as cold as his face

"I am doing this with or without you" Illya hisses, "I am sure I can find any number of men willing to show me how it's done."

Napoleon gapes at him, at a loss for words, a rare sight Illya would appreciate were he less angry.

"You can't be serious."

"I am serious and I am going to finish this mission."

"You really intend to see this through?" Napoleon's voice is less disbelieving and more tired now.

"Yes," Illya's heart is beating its way out of his chest.

"Very well then," he walks over to the coffee table and pours himself another drink, which he immediately downs.

"I believe you are familiar with the logistics," he raises his eyebrow at Illya.

"Yes," he draws his trembling hands into fists.

Napoleon's gaze slides briefly to Illya's hands. He brings his eyes up and nods his head towards the bathroom, "Go on then...clean yourself"

Illya's face reddens and he nods.

As he's closing the bathroom door, Napoleon clears his throat behind him.

"Yes?" Illya asks, stern.

Napoleon's face is slightly redder than usual, "Are you, hm, sure you know where to-"

"Yes!" Illya barks out and slams the door behind him.

Before he can help it he slides down to the tile floor and the only thing stopping him from banging his head against the wall is the knowledge that Napoleon is in the next room and would hear him.

Napoleon. His partner, Napoleon. His partner Napoleon who is going to fuck him.

He slams his fist against the floor, despite his best efforts to remain calm.

What has he brought upon himself? Just yesterday he was thrashing a motel room at the thought of anyone knowing about him and now he is volunteering, no, insisting, to be fucked by his partner. His partner who has been with men before. Napoleon.

He runs a hand over his face. Suddenly, there is no rage left in him, he just feels tired as he stands up slowly.

He uses the toilet and showers, paying special attention to his arse.

When he's finished he doesn't dress and after a few steadying breaths, he emerges from to bathroom to face Napoleon.

Napoleon is sitting on the king-sized bed, nothing but a robe on his body. There's a slight sheen to his skin and his hair is curling around the edges. He must have taken a shower in Gaby's apartment.

Illya appreciates it. He also appreciates how Napoleon's eyes don't linger on his naked body.

He walks closer as confidently as he currently can.

"How are we going to do it?" he asks Napoleon.

Napoleon looks him straight in the eye, "You can still back out," he says almost hopeful.

Illya just shakes his head. He doesn't trust his voice.

"Well then," Napoleon says, "Have you ever received a head?"

"Once."

"How was it?"

"Quick. I was very young," her name was Petra. She had light hair and mischievous brown eyes. She enjoyed getting a rise of him before his family was disgraced and she was forbidden from associating with him. When he first met Gaby she reminded him of her.

Napoleon smiles briefly and hands Illya a bottle of clear liquid with no vignette.

"Might help you to loosen up a bit."

Illya opens to cork and smells it. It's slivovica. Solo must have taken that from Gaby's apartment. She's not gonna be glad.

He takes a huge gulp and grimaces at the acrid taste. It's strong and probably homemade. Gaby will definitely not be glad. He drinks again.

"What should I do?" he asks Napoleon again.

"Never thought I would live to see you ask me for orders," Solo  
smiles and it's almost gentle, "Sit down against the headboard"

Illya does as he's told. Not looking at or touching Napoleon as he makes his way into the bed. Silly, he thinks, considering what is to come next.

"I will suck your cock now."

Illya's head snaps up to look at Napoleon, who is now positioning himself in front of him.

"To what purpose? I should be the one doing that."

"Because, Peril, your teen-aged dalliances aside, you have no experience and I don't think you actually know what a good blowjob comprises of. Besides," he hesitates, "I want you to take at least something good out of this charade."

He moves to spread Illya's legs apart but withdraws as if burned when Illya flinches.

His face looks distinctly hurt for a fraction of a second.

"If you don't intend to back out, Illya, I am going to need to touch you."

More blood rushes into Illyas's face and chest. Of course. He feels stupid.

He takes another huge gulp from the bottle in his hand.

"You can touch me now."

He is prepared for the physical contact now but it still makes him tense up.

Napoleon touches his knees and his hands move slowly to Illya's upper thighs, leaving shivers in their wake. It has been a while since someone has touched Illya in this way. Not intending harm.

Napoleon leans forward and leaves a small peck on the inside of Illya's knee before spreading his legs gently.

He places tender kisses on the inside of Illya's left thigh moving towards his crotch.

Illya feels hot with embarrassment all over. He might not admit it or look it but he is a lightweight when it comes to alcohol and the mix of hard liquor and the warm hands gripping his thighs make him half hard.

Napoleon moves his attention to Illya's cock. He grips the base and jerks him to full hardness.

He moves his hands to Illya's hips as he licks around the head of his cock. When he takes him inside his mouth a moan escapes Illya.

Napoleon leans back and grins at him briefly before going down and taking Illya's whole length in his mouth.

Illya gasps and grips the sheets with his both hands, trying to keep his hips from moving forward.

Napoleon starts to bob his head up and down and Illya brings his fist to his face to bite into it.

Napoleon pulls back with an obscene wet sound and smiles up at Illya.

The image is incredible – Napoleon's lips are red and glossy, his eyes bright, the robe exposing most of his broad chest. It almost makes Illya forget why they are doing this.

"Was this enough of a demonstration?" he tries to sound dignified, but the truth is he has troubles forming a coherent thought and his dick aches with need. It's really been a while. Not that his encounters with women were ever particularly enjoyable.

"Never knew you were so eager."

Truthfully, Illya should have gotten angry at that remark. Insinuating that Illya is enjoying any of it. That he is looking forward to what he is about to do-

That train of thought is stopped when Napoleon takes his dick back in and starts to lazily pump him in time with the movements of his head.

"You won't be able to take a whole cock in your mouth on the first try but swallowing what you can and helping yourself with a hand is just as good as anything," Napoleon says, while ever so slowly stroking Illya's dick.

He leans forward and licks around and sucks on Illya's ballsack, "Some men like that too."

Illya finds that he is on with 'some men' on this one.

Napoleon replaces his mouth with his fingers and cradles Illya's balls while playing with his the head of his cock, his tongue warm and protruding.

It makes Illya bite his hand to stay silent. After a while, his efforts are for nought and he lets out a desperate groan even as he is biting into his hand.

That is the moment Napoleon chooses to stop and pull back. His eyes gleam mischievously as they take in Illya's wanting expression.

"I think this is enough to make you understand the basics," he smirks, "Unless you want me to continue."

Illya glares at him as well as he can in his current state, "You're right I should try,"

Napoleon's smile falters a bit, he wasn't expecting that.

"Suit yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first time writing anything sexual so I hope you enjoyed??  
> Also I am physically incapable of writing Napoleon's name correctly on the first try, like:  
> Napoleion  
> napoolien  
> Napoelien  
> Napolenon  
> Nopolepmn  
> All? Of these? Are different?? The fuck am I doing.  
> And jfyi according to 2am me aparneth is an alternative spelling to apartment


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing emo porn instead of studying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> There's alcohol and a brief mention of suicide and implied child sexual abuse  
> It's inherently dub-conny tho i think that's clear from the setup???

Napoleon has since taken off his robe to reveal the hard cock between his legs. Illya hadn't noticed when that happened but he guesses if Napoleon is no stranger to this he must take at least some enjoyment from the practice

Illya tries to not think about the size too much. Napoleon told him he can help himself with his hand and that's exactly what he plans to do.

"Be careful with the teeth will you?"

Illya glares at him and then turns his attention to the task at hand. He experimentally licks the shiny head and immediately recoils at the salty taste. He grimaces and looks up at Napoleon with a sense of betrayal.

Napoleon for his part is actually putting an effort into not grinning like a fool though it is not entirely working, "What did you expect?"

Illya glowers at him again and takes him inside his mouth as far as he can. It stretches his lips uncomfortably, the warm weight in his mouth awkward. At least he doesn't stink. He knows many men don't give their lovers the luxury of having showered before. 

Lovers.

Except that is not what they are. Not even remotely.

Illya wraps a hand around the base of Napoleon's cock and starts stroking him while trying to bob his head up and down like ho saw Napoleon do. He looks up, seeking guidance, maybe a bit of approval, but Solo has his eyes closed and his head rested against the headboard.

Very well then.

The movements of Illya's head grow more vigorous as he gets used to the hot sensation of Solo's exceptionally sized cock in his mouth.

When Illya pulls back to catch his breath Napoleon opens his eyes and looks at him, eyes lingering on his lips.

Illya takes note of the strange coloration of Napoleon's eyes again.

They truly are beautiful. 

He tears his eyes away from Napoleon's abruptly. No. No beautiful. He hastily wraps his hand around his cock again and leans forward to lick Solo's balls.

A breathy moan escapes Solo, the first sound he's made during this entire endeavor. It takes Illya by surprise and makes him withdraw.

When he bents forward to resume what he was doing Solo stops him with a hand on his shoulder, "I think it's safe to say you know what you're doing, Peril."

Illya nods, he too, thinks he's quite gotten the hang of it, if he says so himself. He leaves the bed and goes to pour himself a glass of water in the kitchen, as an afterthought, he takes one for Solo as well.

Solo is still leaning against the headboard looking quite ridiculous with his cock poking into the air. Illya's own erection has mostly waned while he was focusing on doing as well a possible

The look Solo gives Illya when he accepts the glass of water is strange. Illya can't quite place it.

"So what we'll do next?" Illya asks, sounding a lot more carefree than he feels.

Solo's face snaps to him. He looks like he was interrupted deep in thought.

"Sure, uhm, get on the bed," it is the closest Illya has ever seen him to stuttering.

Solo himself gets off the bed and walks into the kitchen, going through drawers.

Meanwhile, Illya tries to not think about the foreseeable future. He hopes it won't take too long. So far it hasn't been bad at all. In fact, if he was honest with himself he was quite enjoying it. Perhaps it is true what his comrades at navy used to say - it doesn't matter to whom the mouth is attached to. What they are about to do, however, Illya's only ever heard gossip about that. Gossip told in hushed voices about Deputy Commandant Koval and one of the cadets while Illya was still in the military school. Soon after the whispers started Illya was drafted into a separate program by the KGB. He's heard that the boy has killed himself and to his best knowledge, the man was still serving there.

The idea that he is volunteering to do the same thing that drove that boy to suicide all those years ago is making him sick. 

Perhaps this was a bad idea. Perhaps he should inform Waverly himself-

Solo walks into the room, jaw shut tight and lips drawn into a tight line. He's carrying a bottle in his right hand.

He's said he's done this before, Illya thinks, it can't be that bad. Or maybe that's it - that he's done it before but didn't have it done to him. Illya feels a slight tremble in his hand.

No. He has to stop that train of thought. Napoleon has done it before and he is not someone that enjoys other people's pain. Of course, he thought Napoleon was a strictly ladies' man just a few hours ago. 

"This isn't necessary Illya," there's a worried crease between Solo's eyebrows. 

"It is," unless- "You're not willing?" what if he's the one doing the wrong here?

The bone-deep dread must have shown on his face because Solo hastily says: "You're not forcing me to do anything, Peril, I just don't want to do something you'll regret," 

His face is so incredibly earnest it makes Illya's throat go dry.

"Good, then get to it,"

Napoleon laughs as he climbs onto the bed.

"You are one of the pushiest bedmates I've ever had, do you know that Peril?"

Illya doesn't want to look at his smile anymore.

"Stop talking and start, Cowboy. Contrary to popular belief I have better things to do than lay with capitalists on unnecessarily large beds.

"Get on all four then."

The relatively at-ease mood Illya has managed to cultivate over the last couple of minutes is gone as soon as Solo is behind his back and he can't see him.

"Spread your legs a bit more"

Illya obeys. He hears the sound of a bottle opening

"I am going to touch you now okay?"

Illya nods and as soon as he does it he knows he shouldn't have.

Immediately after Solo touches his flesh he jerks forward, yanking himself away until he has his back against the headboard.

Napoleon looks like he's about to be sick. 

"My god, Illya-" he staggers, backing away quickly.

"No," Illya's voice is hoarse, "It's- I don't want to have anyone behind my back," he swallows, "I need to see what you're doing."

Napoleon nods, a bit of color returning to his face as understanding settles on it.

"You can stay where you are then-"

"Just give me a moment," Illya hates how fast his heart is beating and how hard his hands are shaking. He wipes the sweat off his forehead.

"Sure, please take your time," he walks away and Illya hears him uncorking the whiskey bottle again.

Illya reaches for his own bottle, and downs too much of it in one go. It tastes like disinfection but does its job quickly enough. After a while, his hands grow steady again and his heart stops feeling like it's going to pop out of his chest.

It's a testament to how out of it he is that he doesn't notice when Napoleon starts to look at him while leaning on the doorframe. He's holding the bottle by the neck and has no glass. He must have been drinking straight from it. An action that Napoleon normally considers barbaric.

"I'm ready now"

Napoleon nods and comes back to the bed.

"You sure?"

Illya just glares at him.

Napoleon sighs and picks up another bottle from the ground.

"Is that olive oil?" Illya asks incredulously.

"Yes," Napoleon says in a way that implies Illya is missing something.

"Do I look like a salad to you."

This makes Napoleon laugh, somewhat hysterically. Blood rises into his face and he leans his forehead against Illya's knee while trying and failing to hold in undignified giggles

Illya watches him with disbelief, it's probably the first time he ever saw Napoleon earnestly laugh. Perhaps the man is drunker than he lets on. Or maybe he's just as nervous as Illya about the whole ordeal. Whatever the reason, Illya can't help but find it endearing. Reveling in the red cheeks and warm breath against his leg as he tries to calm himself.

Finally, the chuckles have eased and Napoleon leans back and looks at him. His eyes are glossy and his face is still red.

"It's the best I have Illya, you'll have to deal," his voice is breathy and he's still smiling with lines around his mouth

Perhaps Illya didn't know the logistics of the act as well as he thought. Well. You learn something new every day.

"Open up your legs."

Illya does and is a little taken back when Napoleon grips his thighs and repositions him.

Napoleon then coats his fingers in the oil and starts to apply himself to Illya's hole. It doesn't feel particularly nice but Solo's unoccupied hand is warm and steady on his hip and that, he is ashamed to think, he could get used to. 

The first finger goes in without much effort but from there it's more strain but he never feels anything worse than discomfort. He keeps watching Napoleon and notes that his dick is starting to get hard again. 

When Napoleon starts to move his other hand up and down his side, briefly touching his nipple, Illya leans back, closing his eyes briefly despite his previous fears. He trusts Napoleon. His breath hitches when he feels lips and teeth around his nipple.

Maybe it is nice.

At some point, Napoleon starts to suck his cock in time with the movement of his fingers and Illya has no pride left in him to stifle the low moans that escape his throat.

"I'm going to fuck you now, Peril," Illya opens his eyes to see Napoleon leaning over him, lips wet and eyes raw.

"Yes," Illya doesn't believe himself enough to say much else. 

Napoleon coats his dick in oil and wraps his hands around Illya's calves and lifts them over his shoulders.

Then he slowly but surely thrusts his cock into Illya. It's more strain than the fingers, a bit painful even, but the sounds Napoleon makes and the way he looks are honestly a bargain for a little bit of barely-there pain.

When he first pulls out and thrusts back in, the moan he lets out goes straight to Illya's cock. He reaches to stroke himself but Napoleon beats him to it.

"Let me,"

Illya can't bear to see the way Napoleon looks at him. It makes him wish for things that can never be. He closes his eyes but has no way to stop the moans from getting stuck in his brain. It will take a lot of effort to forget them and Illya is not sure he will be able to.

Napoleon thrusts become faster, more erratic, and his hand on Illya's dick does the same.

It doesn't take long before Illya is spilling over Solo's hand and his stomach with a choked off groan.

After that, it isn't long before Napoleon pulls out and soils Illya some more with his own seed. Illya is surprised to find he doesn't mind. He doesn't mind at all. He doesn't mind it when Napoleon falls next to him and casually throws a hand over his chest either.

He is content to just lay there and fail in his efforts to not look at Napoleon. He looks perfect, even spent and disheveled like this, perhaps even more so with sweat gleaming on his body and hair falling over his forehead. 

"So," Napoleon says with a grin, "how was your first time?" he's smiling but Illya knows him well enough to know the question is genuine.

"Adequate," he says, though the effect is a bit lost because of the smile tugging on his lips. 

They lay there for a while before Illya gets up to wash himself.

He is about to turn on the shower cap when the bathroom door opens and Solo slips inside.

Illya ignores him and steps into the shower. He is not as surprised as he should be when Napoleon follows him. He is, however, surprised to find out it doesn't bother him at all.

They clean themselves in silence and later share a bed in much closer quarters than necessary. Illya revels in the heat of the body next to him and when, later into the night, he wakes up with Solo's head nuzzled into his shoulder he doesn't push him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol Illya's not a salad he's a five course meal.  
> I love you for all the nice comments thank you all!!! it makes my day  
> Also this dumb bitch finally learned how to spell Mister Solo's name and only miswrote it a few times?? are u impressed yet  
> Napoeleon  
> Napoelemn  
> napoelon  
> Y'all i made a tumblr under the username annielix  
> https://annielix.tumblr.com/


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *doesn't write for so long she forgets the name of her OC*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> be wary of the tags and archive warnings pls

Illya has never considered himself someone who loves easily. Sure, he loved his parents. He loved his mother, with all her flaws and hard edges and, even though he would never admit it, he loved his father still, despite his faults and betrayal.

As a boy, he thought he had loved Petra too. Imagined marrying her one day and the way she grinned when he picked her flowers was enough to make him daydream about a gaggle of children with that very same smile.

That was before his father had destroyed them. After that, love has been a more complicated ordeal for Illya. He still loved his mother but he had learned to hate his father. It was easier to put blame on someone who was no longer there.

When he was a teenager he had silently given up the grudge he held against his father even though he was still suffering as a traitors son. There was no point. There were real enemies to hate. The men KGB sent him after. The men who tried to put a bullet in him. The men in which he put a bullet.

There was an instance where he had come dangerously close to loving someone. He was nineteen and he was assigned a partner for a simple stakeout mission. The mission had drawn out and he had celebrated his twentieth birthday with that man. They only spent three weeks together and yet it was enough to make Illya feel like he was finally understood. By this boy barely old enough to call himself a man, of all people. He found himself drawn to the light the boy gave off, seemingly unaffected by the despair of the world around him. His name was Denis and he died in a riot led by the rebels just five days after they came back to the base.

He was the one and only friend Illya had in his adult life. He was also the one Illya resented the most. He resented him for daring to be so unapologetically hopeful and full of lust for life that he insisted on celebrating a birthday in the middle of a mission, even if the only way they could do so was to just use up a bit more of their rations. He hated him for all his awkward jokes that made Illya smile, not because they were funny, they truly were not, but because he was so vigorous in his efforts to lighten up Illya's day. He hates him because no matter how bright and warm he was he still ended up like a cold body with no one but a silently weeping mother to bury him.

After that, it was just a string of long dim days full of blood and pain. It didn't matter where he was. Or who he was with on those rare occasions when he wasn't alone. Just a day after day of endless duty. There were times when he felt the bang of a gun near his head even when he was at rest. It made him feel like his face was going to explode but he pulled through. He always pulls through.

He never thought he would have to deal with any feelings of fondness ever again. And then they came into his life. A little German girl so small and so fierce it made his insides ache and an American thief so infuriating and so beautiful it felt like he was digging a hole right into Illya's chest.

The said infuriating American currently had his arms curled around Illya's stomach and was softly snoring into his clavicle. 

The warm breath on his skin is almost too much to take but somehow not enough at all.

He raises his hand to cup Napoleon's head before he can run out of courage. His hair is soft and silky without any product in it.

He could break Napoleon's neck so easily like this. Illya's learned the hard way that there is nothing more brittle and fleeting than human life and he can't. He just can't allow himself to care when he knows it could all be gone tomorrow.

He swiftly gets up from under Napoleon, jostling him from sleep.

Napoleon doesn't wake up into full alertness, which he probably should, considering their line of work, and instead rubs the sleep out of his eyes while yawning.

"Mornin' " his voice is low and scratchy right after waking up and Illya would give a lot to not have that information.

"Good morning," Illya mutters and starts to dress quickly, ignoring Napoleon's eyes on him, "I'm going out to buy food."

He's out the doors within minutes.

There's a bakery not far from their apartment and Illya heads there, enjoying the swift morning breeze dispersing the scent of a busy city. 

In the shop, a short elderly man sells him still-warm baguettes and some sweet pastries for Gaby. 

While he wouldn't be caught dead admitting it, he enjoys being able to just go out and buy fresh food whenever he wants. No provisions or queues worth mentioning.

He comes back to the apartment and is greeted with the sounds of vicious arguing. He tenses up and reaches for his gun before he realizes that the voices belong to Napoleon and Gaby. They are speaking, or rather, yelling in German. And while Illya has some foundations in this language it is about as good as Gaby's Russian, which is to say – not very. As such he only catches snippets from the mass of words the two are hurdling at each other. He sees no point in listening and decides to interfere.

He loudly shouts the door behind him, startling them both.

The two of them are red in the face from arguing and Illya watches them struggle to rearrange themselves into something resembling casualty.

"What are you doing," he hisses, angry at the display of unprofessionalism from both of them.

"Nothing, just..." Napoleon starts, "Just talking out some issues."

"Sure," Illya frowns, "I brought food."

"Thanks," They both say, Napoleon even managing a smile.

Gaby still looks and sounds winded and somewhat shaky when she takes the pastries and thanks him again, retreating to her own apartment.

"What was that about?" He asks Napoleon angrily, barely managing to not yell.

"She is just worried, that is all."

"About what?"

"You, the mission, a lot of things." 

Oh

"It's fine now though, we've settled it," 

There it was again, that fake smile Illya has quickly grown to hate.

"Let's eat, my friend."

They have breakfast in silence and Illya tries to contemplate whether or not he should speak to Gaby. On one hand, he really wanted to reassure her, make sure she's not worried, but on the other hand, he knows he wouldn't be able to withstand her judgment. In the end, he decides to just let it slide and hope it goes away on its own.

Their day passes in uncomfortable silence, with Napoleon pretending to read some paperback novel and Illya trying and failing to focus on a single-man chess game.

As the evening nears they both grow twitchy and the air around them feels heavy.

When he can no longer stand it he locks himself up in the bathroom and takes too much time shaving his stubble to avoid being in the common room with Napoleon. After that, he showers and prepares himself, pushing his fingers inside him in imitation of Napoleon the night before.

When he's done he emerges from the bathroom and puts on the tight pants and undershirt from before, pretty much ignoring Napoleon, who at this point is not even trying to pretend he's not watching him.

Illya glances at his watch with unease. "I'll be going soon,"

Napoleon looks like he wants to say something but in the end, he simply nods.

Illya puts on his shoes and jacket when Napoleon approaches him.

"Don't move," he says as he attaches a bug under the collar of his jacket. Napoleon's fingers on the nape of his neck make Illya's hair stand up.

"If anything goes wrong Gaby and I will be listening."

Illya swallows hard and gives a curt nod. He almost runs out the door for the second time today but manages to restrain himself and make his way into the night and towards the pub they visited before.

His hands tremble and his palms sweat even in the cold evening breeze but he keeps his steps steady and pointed. There aren't many people out at that time but still, the combination of muffled voices in the surrounding buildings and the occasional car engine sound deafening when mixed with the echoes of his footsteps. Everything is so loud and so quiet at the same time and the yellow glow of the streetlamps that usually makes everything look so warm and peaceful is now glaring brightly, biting into his skull.

When he reaches the pub it simultaneously feels like he's walked for hours and that no time has passed at all.

He knocks on the 'employees only' door heading into the side street and, once again, the same boy opens the door for him. Those big brown eyes size him up, the judgment obvious.

He doesn't greet him, just gestures for Illya to follow him inside. The bar has fewer occupants in it than it had the last time he was there but the smell of smoke and liquor is just as strong and nauseating as it was before. He scans the room but doesn't register anyone armed.

The boy leads him across the bar through a locked door and up onto a staircase. There are armed guards in that part of the building. There's two on the bottom floor and another two on the top one, stationed in front of a door to one of Rossi's New York apartments.

He knocks and when the door opens he is ushered inside by a boy half his size and it shuts behind him. He faces Rossi.

"Welcome," the man says with a smile, "You're just on time."

Illya tries very very hard to give the man a smile.

"Well, don't just stand there! Come on in."

Illya does so, forcing himself to find something to say, "Thank you for having me."

Rossi smiles at him, delighted, "Of course. It is my pleasure."

Right.

The apartment resembles a hotel room, in that there is no kitchen and it is essentially just a one big room and you can see what constitutes a bedroom straight from the entryway. The only exit not guarded is the windows and he doesn't see a safe.

The bed is giant, even bigger than what he and Solo have in their temporary lodgings.

He swallows hard.

He throws his jacket over a nearby chair and takes off his shoes. When he reaches for the hem of his shirt to take it off Rossi grabs him by the wrist.

"Not so quickly Ivan, let me at least pour you a drink first, for Christ's sake."

"Sorry," Illya murmurs, all shy and apologetic.

"Don't worry about it," his hand moves to cup Illya's cheek, "Never let it be said that you Russians are not efficient," he laughs, "But there's no need to rush, we have all the time in the world."

He hopes not. Also what even was the point of making his character Serbian if it clearly wasn't getting through Rossi's skull?

Rossi moves to the coffee table where there's a bottle of vodka waiting for him.

"I had this brought in for you,"

"Thank you, sir," Despite what everyone around him maintains, Illya doesn't actually like to drink. In fact, he almost never does outside of a cover, yesterday night being a notable exception. 

There's condensation on the bottle. At least it's cold. Not like that garbage that Gaby tried to force down his throat in Rome.

Rossi hands him a shot glass and then pours himself whiskey into a regular one.

He raises the glass in a silent toast and takes a sip.

Illya throws back his glass. Even though he has no interest in liquor himself he can tell that this is the good stuff.

Rossi pours him another one and he drinks it too.

"Tell me, Ivan," he says as he lights a cigar," don't you ever worry what might happen if he loses interest in you? If he finds himself someone younger, prettier, perhaps more female."

Illya has to fight down a shudder, "No. I think he – Steve is loyal."

Rossi snickers and pours him another shot, "He's a thief and how loyal can a thief really be?"

Despite the warmth the alcohol leaves in him Illya shivers. He's been asking himself that ever since he started working with Napoleon. And perhaps Rossi is right. Solo stole and lied and conned and profited from war. But he was a soldier too. And a prisoner. And a murderer. As was Illya. 

"He is loyal to me," Illya says, probably a bit too courageously for his role. And perhaps the vodka is slowly making his way through his system because his accent is getting rougher without him trying.

Rossi smiles, though it does not reach his eyes, "Is that why you are here? Because he is loyal to you?" he smirks, "I might be wrong but I don't think lending someone out like a cheap whore counts as loyalty."

Illya sees red, "I am here because i am loyal to him."

Rossi laughs, a loud booming sound, "Of course. Don't let my skepticism antagonize you."

Rossi finishes his glass and motions for Illya to come over, "Come closer,"

Illya swallows and takes the few steps separating their chairs. 

Rossi spreads his legs and Illya obediently falls to his knees. He's about to reach for the man's fly when Rossi grips his jaw and holds up his face.

"You are very beautiful Ivan"

His breath smells of booze.

He winds his other arm through Illya's hair and gripping tight he brings their lips together.

It is not what Illya was expecting him to do.

Rossi kisses him passionately and Illya is returning as such until the hand on his jaw moves to his neck. He halts for a second but Rossi doesn't press down, just keeps his hand there.

After a moment Rossi moves one arm form his hair one his hip, sliding under Illya's shirt, making him shiver despite how warm his hand is.

Rossi pulls away, his face even redder than before, leans his forehead against Illya's and whispers: "So beautiful."

He stares into Illya's face long enough that his knees start to hurt from kneeling on the hardwood floor.

The hand around his neck tightens almost imperceptibly.

"We should move to the bed Ivan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so there was no good place to end this so I'm sorry for the cliffhanger but i just finished my finals and i have like two brain cells left and i wanted this out.  
> I would also like to thank the heavens for never letting me send an unedited essay by accident because my prof would get a heart attack and she's too nice for that shit:  
> femamel -female  
> corougasly - courageously
> 
> I'm on tumblr as annielix not posting anything of value tbh but still


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